A Hopeless Place

The snow fell like the ash of an apocalyptic dream; the kind of dream that sets the soul free instead of leaving it trapped behind a ribcage. I walked the length of the path, the snow falling in the holes of my sweater, spreading cold across my skin like a disease. The pressure increased behind my eyes and my eye lashes grew heavy. I bit my lip and took an abrupt left. 

            I focused on the soft crunch of my boots on the grass, which was still fresh and not frozen, a mix of mud and the white purity of the snow. It reminded me of blood, blood that I had just seen hours ago. I walked forward and let my restless right arm flow alongside me, like a curious little kid. Curiosity: something I hadn’t exhibited since I was painting canvases with the tips of my little pink fingers. The smell of cheap laminate floors, sharpened pencils, the faint smell of disinfectant that would burn the inside of my nose like a hug that’s too tight. Memories—all of which didn’t seem to last very long.

            I kept my left hand curled tightly in my jacket pocket as I ran my absent-minded right hand through the damage of my red hair: it was all frayed and dry—desperate for someone to care for it. Like Ariel who been beached for too long, forgotten by her prince. My mother used to come into my room, with a glass of hot chamomile for me to sip, before sitting down and picking up my favorite blue hair brush. She would go slow, highly focused on detangling my hair by using a spray that I once thought contained pure magic—a magic that wouldn’t bring wetness to my cheeks. She’d whisper in my ear to make me smile and giggle. 

Maybe she’d know what to say right now. 

            I kept walking. Aren’t we taught in school that that it’s about the journey and not the destination? I sought to exercise that advice I had been once given. It’s about time I start doing as much. The weight of my tightened left fist bore down on my jacket pocket, causing the area to bulge and sag. My phone’s vibration worked its way up my leg all the way to my head and, subsequently, into my low-bearing conscience. I peered at the broken screen: (3) missed calls from Detective Sherman. I saw an icy cloud snake its way out of my mouth to fill the space between me and my phone. I bit my lip and felt my left leg start to shake. 

Later, later. 

            The cold air bit at my right hand maliciously, forcing it to retreat into my right jacket pocket. Gray and bloated, the sky pushed down onto me. The bare limbs of the trees overhead reminded me of the times were life once flourished here but since then has left. Still, the greenness of those limbs was a beauty unmatched outside the walls of this town. Back when I would wear skirts that kissed the ground and yellow silk ties to pull back my hair. Jerome would chase me down the hill and I’d run, giggling as I had with Mum in my bedroom when she worked with that blue hairbrush. I would wheeze heavy breaths, my lungs hurting from the exertion of running and the intoxicating ache from all the laughing. 

My fingers twitched; my body hummed. I drummed my fingers against the inside of my jacket pocket. My mouth, dry. Now, my lungs only ached for a cigarette. Maybe to fill some of the emptiness that the cold couldn’t even seem to reach. 

            Desire was strong and I was weak. I reached into my jean bag pocket to pull out a short, plump cigarette. As I enclosed my lips around it, the cig welcomed the warmness of my mouth and my red lips stained the white paper. I had almost reached the pond, the pond where Jerome and I spent days and nights together. Dates weren’t my or Jerome’s thing. Yet, under the darkness and disguise of the tattooed night, we’d sit here with our spicy chips, and our gin, and the warmth of our jean jackets to talk and be still. Sometimes, he read me the poetry he had written. I pictured him there, on the motel couch in the middle of the day, brows furrowed as he scribbled with a stubby little pencil scarred with bite marks. Broken pieces cannot all be recovered, he’d written once. 

            The pond was exactly that: a small body of water that neatly met its own boundaries, a being of unforgiving honestly. I respected that. It hadn’t iced over yet. Instead, patches of ice framed the edges of the water like scars on skin. My cigarette was dead already. With a flick of the wrist, it floated to the ground with unnecessary grace. Barely any embers escaped the scorched tip. Despite the desolate morning, the pond looked the same as it did on those night. The hills of this patch of land still rolled in the same gorgeous fashion that I had known so well and that I had loved so much. An outline of a life that had filled and fitted to my body with gentle perfection. I threw my head back and searched the sky for something to ease my shaking muscles, my wiry brain, but I only found myself blinking quickly to replace the flood occurring behind my eyes. I tried closing my eyes, but his blue irises existed there, along the tattoos of his forearms, and the deep dimples of his caramel skin. They were all there, etched into my black eyelids like hieroglyphs, symbolizing life, love, and hope. They were all there, just as they were when he pushed me in the empty shopping cart around the Tesco, grabbing bottles of whiskey, candy, random assortments of cheap fruit and cheese. 

            Slowly, I brought my head down, level with the pond, and clenched my jaw strong enough to crack my molars. I rubbed my left shoulder, causing the still-fresh bruises to scream under the leather of my jacket. My frayed, sore throat surged with pain as I attempted to swallow.

            I unclenched my left fist, still hidden in my pocket. The item held so tightly in my palm revealed its weight, slumping alongside my hand. I pulled it out and help it in my open palm. It gleamed sharply in contrast to the gray and naked nature that surrounded me. The twinkle of the diamonds was brilliant even in the dull sunlight. This bracelet was a luxury I had almost never known in my life. A breath snagged in my chest and I froze, my eyes glued to the shiny bracelet as if it were a car wreck. I cursed at how my vision blurred again, feeling my back grow wet from sweat. I stomped my foot and cursed loud at the object, hearing only squeaky shrieks as they escaped my mouth. My vision slowly became a muddy red color, blinded twice over by the tears I couldn’t suppress. I bit my lip so hard it bled into my mouth. The pain was like a cold shower: it freed me and sorted my emotions appropriately. I cocked my arm back and launched the soft, gently woven four strand diamond bracelet into the pond. Air filled my lungs with refreshing ease and my shoulders slackened, a relaxation so deep my eyelids shut without my permission. 

Deep breaths.

            Beside my right foot was a seven-foot-long patch of fresh dirt. Not too far below that, Jerome laid face down on his stomach; just as he did the many nights that I would come home to find him passed out from a near over-dose. Sometimes he would be blotchy and bloated from the synthetic drugs that our bodies were never meant to process. His tattoos existed to cover his track marks; his chains to distract the eyes from love bites that my mouth didn’t produce; his nails clean but his teeth slowly growing yellow. Jerome was a painting of emotions and soft spots. If you knew him, you would see him as a masterpiece. Yet, up close, he was just a bunch of mistakes that made for a pretty image. 

            “Why entrap me when you already had a caged woman?” I asked the cold dirt beside me.

            I took my phone out from my pocket. I dialed Detective Sherman back, noting how my broken screen was something that I could actually fix. “Hello detective… yes… I’ll make the statement today. Yes, I’ll be there in twenty—depending on traffic. Cheers.” 

I hung up. 

            I didn’t kill Jerome; I didn’t have to. I still thought of his icy blue eyes and how warm they could make me feel. I still thought of the first night he pulled me under the light of a streetlight, kissing me in its warmth. Yet, alongside those memories, existed the memories where the same blue eyes raged with intensely as his fingers dug into my body, aching for control. Oh, how his eyes used to redden and glaze from the influence of something unnatural. The secret that makes up the truth is this: life catches up to you. Jerome saw life in black and white, but not right from wrong.

I didn’t have to kill Jerome because his other woman had done it for me.